Crown of Sand
by Simba Kid
Summary: Having fallen on hard times during the years of peace after the Lylat, Fox takes on a contract to investigate a disturbance in a mining settlement on the remote desert planet of Titania.


_Yes, I know it's been a while. I'm updating this on an ad-hoc basis. I can't promise this will actually end up getting finished. My other Star Fox story will not get finished. In order to be comfortable with it, I'd have to start from scratch. _

From the bridge of the Great Fox, the slowly orbiting planet of Titania looked almost serene. The red dirt of its surface shone out again the backdrop of the emptiness of space. As the aging vessel began its controlled fall into the planet's gravitational pull, the expanding red giant almost seemed comforting: a single splash of brilliant color against the black expanse beyond.

Fox's tale swished nervously back and forth. His arms crossed, he looked out motionlessly across the void. Ridges and mountains became more defined. Not a single cloud obscured the topography that the mercenary studied to the point of memorization. It looked benign enough from a distance, but he was not fooled. He perceived the vast deserts that defined most of the arid planet's landscape as well its towering peaks, the only feature that distinguished one unending wasteland from another. This was a world of sand, dirt, and heat. Nothing more.

The intercom crackled to life: _"Fox, we're beginning our descent. Better w-w-warm up the Arwing"._ Taking a last look at the surface, he glanced at the area where he would soon be landing: nestled between three intersecting mountain ranges was his destination. Though he couldn't yet see it, he had reviewed the dossier on the mission and the accompanying aerial photographs to know where it was. He knew that it was a crumbling city where desert folk eked out a living catering to the wants and needs of the miners laboring in the mineral-rich mountain sides. He knew that poverty plagued the city despite the vast mineral wealth buried under the surface. He knew that here, at the edge of the galaxy, he would find life at its most primal. A smile cracked on his face. It was perfect.

Fox cringed. The Arwing was a mess. The chipped paint and rust that he always promised himself he'd take care of and never did covered up an outdated engine and dodgy systems. It was a wonder it still ran at all, when it did. There was never quite enough payoff to ensure the top quality care he'd once had for his equipment, the kind he had when his particular services were needed.

"Slippy, you uh… fixed the landing gear, right?" he said, feeling the hull as the aged junk sat on the booster runway.

"Oh, yeah, Fox!" the chipper toad squeaked back unseen from where he was working inside the Landmaster, "Good as new!"

"And the supplies? Ammo, rations, documenta-"

"Yes, Fox, it's all there," the amphibian said, cutting him off. "Everything's ready."

"Yeah, sure" he muttered as some of the paint came off in his gloved paw. This was embarrassing. Money had never been a problem before, and now it was the only problem. For a moment, he wondered how much longer he could hold the team together. At least he'd fit in down there amongst the beggars, he thought. "How long 'til the Landmaster is working again?"

The upper half of the green amphibian emerged from the tank "Sorry Fox. This thing needs an overhaul, and I just don't have the tools," he said with a non-committal shrug. "Hope you like spelunking!" With that, he disappeared back into the metal beast to make what repairs he could in the absence of any other productive activity presenting itself.

"Great… thanks" Fox sighed, turning back to the sorry-looking spacecraft. He was hardly surprised considering how much abuse it had suffered, but the metal behemoth would have made searching the caves infinitely easier, not to mention less unnerving. He reviewed the brief once more in his head: several miners working in the deep shafts searching for iron ore and precious metals had gone missing in the past week, along with a sizeable amount of equipment which had been the real loss. With poverty gripping the area, new laborers were never hard to find. Still, operations had been suspended and the company was on the verge of abandoning the project altogether by the time Fox had found out about their situation through his contacts in the government who had big money invested in it. It was the first time he'd had actively hunt for work. Even then, they'd only agreed because of how cheap he'd been willing to offer his services.

It had never bothered him that he was in essence profiting from the misfortunes of others. Violent problems needing violent solutions were a natural part of life, or so he'd thought. It had been true in the era of political instability his father had lived in. The people of Corneria had always needed protectors, and he was more than happy to oblige. It was his place. But now that peace had broken out, new heroes were needed. High-minded reformers and politicians willing to undertake the mundane task of rebuilding the Lylat system were in, and mercenaries willing to set aside safety and morality for danger and profit were out. His place was gone. He was a remnant of a time most people would rather forget, and just like the battles he'd fought less than a decade ago, he was now a thing of the past. The war hadn't beaten Fox. Change had.

"_Attention, we are over the settlement now. Prepare for transport. Hangar doors opening in three minutes." _the metallic voice of ROB crackled over the intercom.

Fox snapped back to reality. Having climbed into the cockpit and strapped himself into the harness, he stared into space as he waited for Slippy cross to the other side of the airlock as the launch ramp warmed up. The canopy closed with a snap and the displays and readouts blinked to life. Once more, he began tabulating the costs of the mission against the sum promised upon the completion, annoyed that so much of his concentration was wasted on how to stretch the value of his money. The wild thought of selling the Great Fox crept into his mind. The notion had haunted him the past few weeks as specter of what might happen should all other options fail. With a half-snarl, he pushed it to the back of his thoughts. He was not prepared to suffer that final indignity.

Slippy closed the doors. The warm hum of the launch ramp reached a climax. At the end of the ramp, the hangar doors cracked opened with a rush of air being sucked into space. Fox let his head be thrown back against the seat as his craft burst forward, out of the Great Fox and into the void. The stunning sight of the stars rushing up to meet up was lost on Fox. Instead he focused on the dimly lit readouts. Fuel levels, velocity, distance to planet, and gravitational pull all filtered through his experienced eyes into a practiced, routine path of entry.

This was where he belonged. This was all he'd known. He'd spent years honing his skills as a pilot, confident it would secure him a profitable livelihood. He'd traded security and stability for adventure and wealth. And yet, here he was speeding towards a backwater planet, chasing down with shameful eagerness a job he'd taken on not because no one else could do it, but because no one else would.

A droning beep signaled an incoming call. Once more storing his thoughts for later, Fox flipped open his end of the channel. A portly beaver in a wrinkled shirt and tie popped onto the screen. "You have entered Titanian airspace," he said with a robust, authoritative drawl. "State your name and purpose".

"Fox McCloud. I'm the contractor," he responded.

"Oh yeah. 'Bout time. Settle down at dock one. I'll be out to meet ya soon as ya get here." The image flicked to black as the nose of the Arwing began to glow orange as it entered the atmosphere. The details of the settlement came into focus as McCloud sped toward the ground. The bright sheen of the metallic wall encircling the settlement came first, followed by what he already knew were living quarters at the base of the towering peak that capped the mine. He didn't see the earthen native dwellings till he came out of his dive into a banking turn, circling around the unnamed peak that in the twilight hours of the planet's day cast a narrow, pointed shadow over the low, flat buildings hugging the mountainside. Ant-sized inhabitants darted back and forth as desert winds blanketed the entire pathetic community in dirt.

Once more, the communication channel chirped. This time, a bored-looking, helmeted dog sipping a steaming liquid from a cup appeared. "This is Traffic Control. Dock one is cleared for landing." Once more, McCloud's screen blanked before he could give a reply. Not that he'd minded; idle conversation never interested him.

As he eased up on the throttle, he noticed a dull grey, round transport ship hogging the majority of the landing space, its loading ramp down. Fox finally slowed to a hover above the landing 'dock', really a patch of dirt with carved outlines and white paint indicating its status. Beyond it, from a hastily-constructed, semi-cylindrical canvas hangar, the beaver from the intercom slogged against the wind to Fox's destination. After a moment of nervous hesitation, Fox attempted to deploy the landing gear. Three long sections of the underside of the Arwing inched toward the ground, the connecting rods squealing in protest. Each touched down in arrhythmic succession. Fox breathed a sigh of relief as he powered down the craft and let it sink into its resting position on the red planet.

He tapped the communicator on his wrist. "Fox to bridge. I've landed and am making contact now. Will report back when established," he said.

Peppy's unseen voice crackled back. "Copy that. Orbit has been secured. Good luck. Bridge out."

The cockpit hissed as the canopy opened, and a rush of hot, dry wind blasted Fox's face and exposed arms. His usual flight jacket had been abandoned for a loose shirt, a vest, and a protective neckerchief he now pulled over his muzzle. He squinted against the dusty air and blinding sun, and pulled a pair of black sunglasses over his eyes. Finally, after checking out of habit that his blaster remained in its holster on his hip, he pulled himself out of the cockpit and onto land next to where the beaver now stood.

"This way!" he indicated with a wave of his meaty paw toward the canvas structure. Fox wordlessly followed the portly animal back to the ramshackle structure and under the thick canvas fold that served as a door.

The sides of the hanger bulged inwards from the force of the wind. Shielded from the sun, the air in the hanger hung oppressively over what Fox figured must have been the project managers as they studied charts and maps while they barked orders into radios at unseen subordinates. Their clothes were exclusively wrinkled and saturated with dirt. The majority of the mostly male staff had either unbuttoned their shirts or abandoned them all together. Fox's nose wrinkled as the reek of sweat assaulted his nostrils.

The beaver turned to Fox and glanced up and down the lupine before meeting his gaze. "So, you're the contractor. The name's Tucker Brack," he said, extending his hand into a firm shake which Fox returned without breaking his gaze. "I'm the general overseer. Well, least I am now that all the important folks have up and left. I take it you're aware of our… particular situation?" His thick drawl was already beginning to wear on Fox's nerves.

Fox pulled the neckerchief down around his neck. "Yes, my understanding is you've lost eight men-"

"Two laser drills and a high-power hauling truck this past week alone. Damn things are worth more than I make in a year," Brack interrupted. He stepped over to a map of the mine sprawled out on a collapsible table on the uncovered ground and pointed to the deepest section at the bottom of the page. "They were working here, in the newly-excavated areas way down in the shafts. I don't need to tell you that kind of equipment don't come cheap, and this little operation is already stretched thin as it is. The investors are nervous and the sooner we sort out this mishap, the sooner we get back to business."

Fox crossed his arms. "And we're assuming your men are-".

"Don't bother. They all signed the standard disclaimer. Time is of the essence." Brack answered without looking away from the map. Fox's tail swished back and forth aggressively. He hated being interrupted.

"I've arranged for a crew to take you to the furthest secure location. Once there, you'll locate the missing equipment and secure a path for us to haul it out," the beaver finished, looking up from the map.

"When do I start?" Fox asked without hesitation, eager to end the interaction.

"Tomorrow. No one's moving nowhere till the storm clears," Brack answered, turning toward the door. As he drew the curtain back, he stared pointedly at Fox. "Remember, this place is bleeding money without any ore shipments. The sooner you recover our equipment, the sooner you get your money. I've set you up in the miners' quarters. I'm sure you can find your way". The beaver ducked under the canvas and hurried back out into the storm. For a moment, Fox remained staring at the makeshift door.

With a wrist flick and a button press, he opened a channel to the Great Fox. "Slippy, we're being delayed until tomorrow. Sandstorm. Upload the mine schematics to my readout."

"On it, Fox. Good luck!" the amphibian chirped too cheerfully for Fox's thinning patience. Venturing back out of the odorous hangar, he glanced beyond the protective wall at the sun sinking behind a distant mountain range. He hated being made to wait. It gave him nothing to do but reflect on his current misfortune and filled him with resounding dread. Slippy could stand to be cheerful. Peace meant resuming the steady pace of expansion into new planets that had electrified and excited the Lylat system in peace time. Mechanics were always needed on the massive colonial fleets that brought bright-eyed settlers to the edge of civilization. The fact that Slippy could easily make double what the entire team was currently living off of made Fox clench his teeth. Peppy, on the other hand, had long since passed the qualifying age for the pension the military owed him for his years of service. Fox even dared broach the subject of retirement lest the old hare give the matter any more thought than Fox suspected he already had.

He needed them. He'd always needed them, but in the past, they'd needed him as well. They'd needed his leadership and steady head to keep them on course. They'd needed his willpower and courage to inspire them. But now, no-one needed him. For the first time in his life, he was lost.


End file.
